Red Parade
by Triple-A-XD-XP
Summary: An OC imputed fanfic (don't judge) of Homestuck, and the sessions loosely based on Hussie's designs -aka: same characters, similar events, different outcomes. Just think of Calliopes fanfic, where she put herself in the story, That is this, with my fankid, Anya :)
1. Prologue

The Guardian's purpose grew full of fissured human flaws, although feeling well-balanced in a grasp to a species worthy expectations. She was nameless but never soundless. Her tone and harmonious chords, softly blended in the daringly-bold, emphasized endings, always managed whispers of lush wistful stories of extravagant heroes. In her fated blindfolded gaze, there rested a winking glance and kindled smile; widening and ceasing as she marveled over these ancestral heroes relinquish evil. Strikes of justice, lashes of dismay, and unending twists of thread, binding strangers and loved ones alike in a bounded page of continuous words and hymns –like many epic bedtime tales. However, despite some buried deceit with the stories of old, and although blind from birth, she could clearly see the prevailed, heroines and heroes alike, as virtuous and true.

In some moments of the unaccounted relays induced to her chosen life, she felt rather envious of the gallant vanquishers as they saved worlds that may have not deserved no better. A sick, mucky envy of useless dignity. It clung to the edges of her silhouette. The breath of elements that formed the Guardian's disregarded beauty desperately cleansed the corruption she swallowed for the sake of those around her. It was natural, and oh-so powerful, once delved into the casting irons of the glorious Cancri star… yet, she still felt compelled in thoughts of utter worthlessness.

What she had not, and will not, realize for years, and years to come, was: amongst her modest love and enticing jealousy for the very heroes and heroines she always spoke of, she _herself_ was one of them. And the time seemed yet to arrive to prove this! In fact, it would take almost an eternity, with a glimpse to dimensions beyond, to perfect a happy ending for the entity of Words. She, the Guardian of Chronicles and Patois, was, is, and will be the hero of this very legend. For that, we must unravel the cloth of innovative chapters to the very creation. Let us snag down the bare string that wove and entwined this whole masterpiece. Chapter One.


	2. Chapter 1: Introduction is key

There was a faint ticking in the room, nagging at the time passing by. Then there was that pesky breeze from the AC above, as if to chill the air around the room on purpose. Not to mention the bright sunrays too intense for this seemingly wanted reading environment. A peak of impatience at the space within overflowing mental thoughts and the pillows surrounding her initiated as well.

She broke away from the printed text before her, and glanced in many angles around. The clock to her right, an ordinary black and white office clock borrowed from her mother's office, had a bleak hand at the 3. She sighed in annoyance, calculating an estimated of 22 minutes of reading time. Her breathe, warm to the feigned air, smelt of chocolate mint from her gum she preciously spit out. A lounge pillow to her left was knocked down by a mere tap of her adjusting elbow, and more unwanted light reflected from the ground to her gaze. She turned back to the book in her hands – a great novel on the theory of different religions and associated entities. A book she was not really enjoying, simply because it did not distract her cramming thoughts. There lay an assumption that this could solve for any diversion. For her, today just wasn't in all that much luck, to guess in the least.

But who exactly is "her"? These observations, objects, and linked verbs are done to and by "her", so she must have a name. What is her name?

The infamous Honorary Placronym is embedded before the reader. It reads a hearty "SassyHarbinger". Mutually, audiences are conflicted, of both confusion and unsatisfactory rates. That nickname was neither funny nor clever. What was the Storyteller even thinking? Let's try again.

Anya Denisov.

Anya was paying no attention to a letters that revealed her identity to any mass of primary makeup in what reality that could not be said with mere typed words. Instead, she was back to reading that novel again, this time with greater patience in calming her thoughts. For a second time, it did not work. She flipped a page, and scanned a thesis on Mormonism. Still not working.

A slight interruption in the room was caused in the direction of her crossed feet. Constant _bings_ coming from her laptop's trivial speakers, idled at the corner of the room, hesitated her reading eyes. A couple seconds pass, and the same repetitive _bings_ commenced once more. Someone was trying to chat with her. Her heart skipped a beat as a series of names pranced behind her eyelids as to who exactly was beckoning her virtual social-attention. While it might have been John's birthday today (a friend not worth fully mentioning at the moment), the girl already gave her wishes to him, and directed her cousin Jade (someone also too important to explain) a present drawn in a day's pass. Anya's high-hopes might be crushed, she knew very well, as she steadied her body upright, and tumbled off the pillowed mess atop her bed. Soft plumps of the blankets and cushions falling to the carpet ground followed her soft steps to the charging computer. She lifted its top, and the screen brightened to her return. Thank goodness! It was dearest Rose Lalonde.


End file.
